Take Your Time
by kennagirl
Summary: All these combined into one thought: "This is how I die. At the hands of a man who thinks I was hitting on his girlfriend."


Steve did _not_ want to be here. The bar was packed, which was normal for a Friday night, but it was December 23rd, so he thought everyone would be home celebrating with their families. But he had forgotten about the two kinds of people who like to go out on Christmas: people escaping their families, and people who don't have families to escape.

He fell into the third category: retail workers who have to close the store after last-minute Christmas Eve shoppers.

The stress of the holidays had really gotten to him, so he was determined to have one night. Go out, have a beer, relax a little. His roommate Sam had already gone to his parents' place upstate, and Steve was supposed to ride up on his bike right after work the next day. For the night, he had their Brooklyn apartment to himself. Ten minutes in, and he realized just how strange it was to not be tripping over another person in their little shoebox. So he left, deciding to be alone around other people.

He was around other people, but the woman next to him at the bar was not getting the alone part of the equation.

He'd barely been there ten minutes before the blonde "Call me Lorraine!" had plopped down next to him practically in his lap. She was already tipsy and weaving, ordering a round of tequila shots for her friends. She flirted, he made small talk back, and she took the tray of shots back to her table. He thought that would be the end of it, but she was back in short order, flirting more brazenly and trying out her best/worst pick-up lines. It quickly became clear that she was looking for some action and wasn't picky about how she got it. Not only that, she hinted that he should be grateful she was looking twice at him.

The whole situation was making him uncomfortable. He wanted her to stop, but he didn't want to be rude. She'd done nothing wrong other than be too drunk to read his signals. If he tried to leave, she might follow him out. If he excused himself to the bathroom, she might take it as an invitation to join him for some fun. It was a delicate situation to extract himself from and he wasn't sure how to start.

From behind, an arm slung its way around his neck.

The first thing he noticed was that this guy was much more built than the weight class of guy he usually tangled with on what Sam called his "Social Justice Errands."

The second thing was the intricate mechanical tattoos that trailed out of the guy's right sleeve, down to his knuckles. Anyone with the pain tolerance for that was bound to be able to take a hit from Steve and barely flinch.

The third thing was the whiskey coming off his breath in waves.

All these combined into one thought: _This is how I die. At the hands of a man who thinks I was hitting on his girlfriend._

As Steve turned to simultaneously defuse the situation and prepare for a fist to the face, he was stopped by the feeling of chapped lips on his cheek.

 _What the hell._

"Hey babe, sorry I'm late," the guy said, like he didn't just cuddle up to a complete stranger. Steve was about to correct him, when the guy looked at Lorraine. "Thanks for keeping my boyfriend company. Had a nightmare of a time getting here."

Lorraine just blinked. "Oh." She nodded sharply, hopped off the barstool, and stumbled away.

Without missing a beat, the stranger leaned in to whisper the sweetest nothing in Steve's ear. "You wanna escape now while she's distracted?"

"God, yes." Steve drained what was left of his beer and left the bottle on the bar with enough cash to cover his tab and tip. They wandered out together, the guy's arm still around Steve's neck. Once they hit the cold air outside, Steve stepped away. "Thank you."

"You looked cornered," the guy said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Figured I'd help you out."

"Well I appreciate it." Steve offered his hand. "Steve."

"Bucky." He took Steve's hand and shook his head. "Sorry, James. Bucky is what my buddies called me in boot camp and it stuck."

Steve grinned. "I think I like Bucky." Bucky rolled his eyes. "Army?"

"Used to be," he said, and pulled his left hand out of his pocket for the first time. It was a prosthetic.

"Oh."

"Yeah." Mood sufficiently ruined, he tucked it back away.

Steve stood there awkwardly for a moment, then turned towards his apartment. "Well, I better head home. Nice to meet you, Bucky."

"Let me walk with you."

He turned back and raised an eyebrow. "I can take care of myself."

"Muggers get desperate this time of year. Want to try and provide for their families as best they can," Bucky said.

"I know this," Steve said, "and I repeat, I can take care of myself."

Bucky continued without acknowledging his objections. "You're dressed like a high-end hipster. That makes you a bigger target."

Steve looked at his outfit and had to agree. The store he worked at had a hipster vibe and the employees were supposed to dress to match. It was nothing Steve didn't already have in his closet, he just didn't wear it all at once on his days off. "Fine, you can walk with me," he said, nodding in the direction of his place. Bucky fell into step beside him. "But then how are you getting home?"

"I can walk myself." Bucky shrugged. "No one messes with a jacked guy with a robot arm."

"And is the robot arm the left or the right?" As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Steve regretted them. "I'm sorry, that was insensitive."

"Nah, it's what I was going for, actually." Bucky smiled, his first one of the night, and Steve thought he looked pretty handsome when he did. "After I got blown up, I was kinda fucked up. And one day I was bitching to my friend Tasha about how I didn't match anymore. So she drags me to her boyfriend's tattoo parlor and tells him to make me match again." He tugged both hands out of his pockets and held them out. "Took months to get it all done. Guy's got steady hands and great attention to detail when he's not eating pizza off the floor and drinking coffee out of the pot."

Steve admired the art in the street lights between the night's shadows. "It's beautiful. I've always wanted a tattoo."

"So why don't you get one?"

He shrugged. "I'm allergic to everything under the sun, including some of the inks they use. I want one, but not that badly."

Bucky nodded thoughtfully and silence overtook the pair. It was comfortable, and neither one of them felt the need to fill it. Just a few blocks later, they had arrived at the front door of Steve's building.

Steve looked at him and grinned. "You wanna come up and see my etchings?"

Bucky snorted. "You wanna update that line, buddy?"

"I was an art major," he explained. "There are actual etchings involved."

Bucky hesitated, then gestured for Steve to lead the way. "As long as you're not trying to compromise my virtue."

"Me? Never," Steve teased as he let himself into the building. Bucky followed him up the stairs, their hands occasionally brushing as they climbed.


End file.
